


Hope never dies

by TormentaPrudii



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator, had inception flashbacks while writing this nonsense, tagging just all the mental stuff just incase
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:22:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21784165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TormentaPrudii/pseuds/TormentaPrudii
Summary: Hanzo learns what it is to have undying hope. And how it can break him.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 15
Kudos: 212





	Hope never dies

**Author's Note:**

> This got carried away. Was a prompt for Whumptober but then morphed into something [ SaltCore ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltCore/pseuds/SaltCore) mentioned/requested about a trope of false rescues due to hallucinations. 
> 
> Not entirely pleased with the ending but I got to move on to other things.

Hanzo understands pain, is used to pain. He learned far too young what it is to endure pain. Lessons doled out by teacher after teacher. He is used to the feeling of the nerves crackling under his bruised skin like lightning in a cloud darkened sky. He is used to the punishment of surviving, of continuing his existence. So when they pump is veins full of chemicals and jolt his body with electricity shattering the control he has over his muscles, he knows how to bear it.

He knows too, what it is to be haunted. To hear echoes of the dead. Familiar with the heart stopping grief and bone deep guilt that wails out in the darkness moments of his days. Surfacing often when he’s sunk to the bottom of a bottle. Late at night with his arms wrapped around another to keep him grounded. 

He’s not caught off guard, isn’t unprepared when he hears his name while he’s rousing from a round of enduring the so called “treatments”. He hears a voice… Jesse’s voice, muffled perhaps by concrete, sounding far away. 

At first he didn’t understand the muffled call of his name, at least he thought it was his name being called out, unable to separate it from the straining wheeze of his lungs trying to take in air and the sluggish but booming thump of his heart. He is able to quickly recognize the source of the voice, his guilt. His decision to haphazardly forgo his well being, unnecessarily perhaps, to buy the team time.

It makes perfect sense, he’d be hearing Jesse’s panicked voice screaming his name over and over, never getting nearer, never changing. A loop of the last thing Jesse had said to him, over and over, again and again, he called Hanzo’s name. It was over the comms, he can picture perfectly Jesse’s face contorted with rage and fear.

While the circumstances are different, it is familiar enough for the voice to become white noise, because Hanzo is well versed at being haunted by his own mind. He knows there are times it can’t be trusted. The sting of hurt doesn’t fade, each time the voice appears at the edge of his hearing deep in his chest is an ache he can only endure. 

Like the many times before he’s learned to handle these ghosts birthed from his guilt and shame, even recently with others’ helping him on his path of redemption, how to lessen the torment of the ghosts. 

Only to learn of a new one.

“—nzo! Hanzo, are you there?” Hanzo’s startled awake. The full body jerk makes him hiss, but he ignores the screaming of his nerves, the closeness of the words, sounding across his cell at the door, capturing his full attention. “Darlin’, where are you? I need you to make a sound. Let me know where you’re at.” 

It’s not far away. It’s not muffled. It’s right there. Clear and overwrought right behind the door is….

“Darlin’, please, gimme a sign, something?” 

Hanzo’s heart clenches at the words, at the heavily wounded drawl weighing them down. Hurt he caused that will not be ignored or pushed aside. But with the spike of pain is a blossoming of relief he tries frantically to hold with both hands. He needs to call back. He needs to answer. He makes a sound, a stuttering guttural sound. It isn’t loud, its trapped in his throat, his jaw clamped shut unwilling to open at his command. He tries again. 

He shouts back raspy, but louder, clearer. “Here! I’m here! Jesse! I’m here!”

Please, please let him be heard. His voice is strained and cracks. He’s right there, on the other side of the door. But the air goes silent when Hanzo draws in a breath that pulls his lungs into agony. No, no, no. Hanzo drags himself onto his side. He rolls unto the ground, the impact makes his shout become cutoff with a grimace but he reaches out with a hand, planting it to pull himself to the door, to the voice, to Jesse. 

He doesn’t make it. His body unable to handle the strain, the screaming of his pierced skin, sliced muscles, drilled bones, not yet fully healed refusing to give him an inch of obedience. 

His vision blinks out.

  
  


“—rlin’, where are you? I need you to make a sound.” He jerks awake but this time it doesn’t hurt as much, he isn’t on the floor either. He remembers the floor, crawling over what felt like hot coals and shards of blades. He should be on the floor. But there isn’t time to question it, not when Jesse so close. There’s no time to ponder the streaks of blood on the floor stopping halfway to the door, not with rescue to near. He sucks in a gulp of air, his lungs only barely sore, to call back.

“Here! I’m here—

“— me know where you’re—.” 

“—right here! Can you hear me?! Jess—”

“— please, gimme a sign, somethi—”

“JESSE!” Hanzo roars. 

“—need you to make a sound.” 

Hanzo screams. 

There’s nothing when he runs out of air. The air is still. Silence, except for his gasping of air.

Hanzo learns, in the moment, what it is to be haunted by the ghost of hope.

  
  


Each time he comes to consciousness, over days maybe weeks, becomes aware of his body and surroundings, feeling only pain with every breath and heart beat, he learns to not call back. He forgets a few times. Calls back with his heart slamming against his ribs before realizing there is no one there. There will be no reply, no breaking down his door, no stern face hidden under the wide brim of a hat.

Since there’s no one to see, he does not hide his face, as tears run down his cheeks and onto the cot. 

Just like the first voice on the edge of his hearing, his mind plays it for him on a loop, not caring he doesn’t want it, that it makes his heart bleed and crumble. A comfort that is only a cruelty.

“Darlin’, please, where are you?” 

Hanzo masters the lesson, to not call back no matter what. To instead go numb.

But hope is relentless, refusing to let Hanzo go.

  
  


Something touches his face. 

Hanzo flinches away shrinking back into the wall at his side but the touch continues. It’s unlike the touches he’s become accustomed to by the only people he comes in contact with, no their touches sear and tear at him. But this, this touch is soft. He uncurls himself, cautiously peering at the source of the gentle touch.

“Found you.” Jesse sits on the cot as his side. “Oh darlin’ I found you.” He dips down and Jesse cups Hanzo’s face, kisses him feather light. His chapped lips catching just so against Jesse’s, whiskers from his beard tickling at his nose.

Hanzo gapes at Jesse, his eyes sweeping quickly over Jesse’s face, his arms and hands hurt too much to reach up and grab him but he feels him at his hip. He feels the warmth from his body. He smells smoke and spice. Hanzo’s face crumples with tears and a broken whimper.

“Oh sweetness, it’s okay. I got you. I found you.” 

He feels Jesse’s forehead against his own as he closes his eyes tears streaming down his face. His trembling fingers find the edge of his serape and clutch it. He lets out a choked sob, taking in a shaky breath, his lips pull into a weak smile. 

Hanzo pulls back into the relief washing over him.

“Jesse—” Hanzo blinks his eyes open.

Jesse’s gone.

Hanzo searches the room. He finds nothing but the locked door and grey stone walls. He shakes his head, fingers digging into his scalp letting go of the flimsy blanket covering him, not noticing the shortness of his hair or the tender skin.

No. No, no, no. NO!

He was here. He was just here! The spot at Hanzo’s side holds his warmth. He felt him. He kissed him. He—He smelt like smoke and spice. He...was here. He was...right here. He...

He was….

He wasn’t.

Hanzo shakes and fold into himself letting out a sound of anguish, the final parts of him shattering to pieces, clattering to the floor.

  
  


Jesse comes back. 

“I found you, darlin’.” 

Hanzo wishes he didn’t.

“Oh sweetness, it’s okay.” Hanzo wept the second and third time. 

“I got you. I found you.” By the fourth he turns his head away and looks at the wall. He still feels the gentle touches and whispered words of affection, the warmth of Jesse being close. His scent lingers in the air after he vanishes time and time again. 

  
  
  


“Jesus fucking Christ. Hanzo!” The voice isn’t gentle this time. It’s rough and it jolts him. 

“Hanzo, goddamn what did they do to you?” Hanzo rolls his head over. Jesse is over him, brows pulled up in shock, eyes wide taking in whatever was done to Hanzo. 

“Okay, it’s gonna be okay. We’re getting outta—“ It’s brief, the spark of hope that fills him. Hanzo promptly smothers it.

“No.” Hanzo croaks.

“Darlin’?”

“You’re not here. You’re not taking me anywhere.” Hanzo stares at Jesse with tired and empty eyes. 

“Oh honey.” Jesse brushes the backs of his hand on Hanzo’s cheek. Hanzo quakes, fighting the want to lean into the touch. “I wish it wasn’t true.” 

Hanzo nods turning away from Jesse to look at the ceiling. A blink later Jesse is gone.

Not that he was ever there.

Jesse’s visits are frequent. Apparitions altering after Hanzo dismisses them. He’s fooled a few times. He lashes out in anger sometimes. Soft sad eyes staring back at him, unaffected, uncaring, or simply gone. He no longer has tears to spare. He learns to hate the hope clinging to his heart.

Hanzo’s in the corner curled up staring at nothing, one of the few pass time activities he has on his good days, where he can move about the cell with minimal strain, when the door opens. 

He thinks briefly of fighting the orderlies just to have something to do but he’s tired. To feel something solid impact his fists. All his attacks ineffectual on the hallucinations his brain continues to show him. Like punching in water or a dream. 

Hanzo hears the jingle of the spurs as Jesse crosses the threshold, he sharpens his stare into a glare, pointing it in Jesse’s direction. Peacekeeper is in his grip hand barrel tracking his eyes as he sweeps the cell. Hanzo watches sees his eyes widen finding him in the corner. Jesse looks different. He’s dirty, there’s soot or dirt on his face, the hair peeking out from his hat clinging to his skin from sweat. 

With a sigh Hanzo closes his eyes. Another iteration. Another attempt to fool him. It's his own doing, having nitpicked everything wrong in the many times Jesse is conjured up in his cell. His past attention to detail damning him.

Hanzo keeps his eyes closed, waits for him to say something, for pet names and gentle assurances. They don’t come. He opens his eyes in time to see Jesse lower Peacekeeper to the ground, his left hand up palm out. Hanzo doesn’t move so Jesse does. He steps slowly toward him, approaching as if he were a scared wild animal. His leather chaps and belt creak at his movement. Hanzo realizes he’d forgotten how the materials groaning when Jesse would squat or stretch out or when he works himself out of them. Hanzo never thought he’d miss that. 

When he closes in Hanzo can smell him, it’s smoke and spice like always but also fresh gunpowder, blood, and sweat. He hears the struggle of him trying to steady his breaths, to keep them deep and slow, as if he were running. He also hears other voices, voice from the com link in Jesse’s ear. Like the times they were pressed together trying to conceal themselves in a dark corner from enemies on their trail. Countless snippets of missions from a lifetime ago play like film reel in his mind.

“Yeah, I got him.” Jesse whispers. Hanzo nearly misses it, too busy with his memories.

“Do you know who I am?” Hanzo sighs then looks to the wall. It’s not real. It’s elaborate, more than ever before but it isn’t real. 

He’s not here.

Jesse isn’t here. 

He just has to wait. He’ll be alone soon. He just has to ignore it. 

“Do you know who you are?” 

“Leave.” Hanzo’s words are a soft rasp. Begging. 

“Han—“

Hanzo buries his face into his arms, listens to the steps Jesse takes away from him. He lets out a sigh of relief. The tension in his chest slipping away as the clip of the boot’s heel trails away. 

He starts to tremble for the first time in a long time. He wants so much of this to be real. So much to see and feel Jesse again. To be held by him. To feel the safety only being wrapped in his arms could provide. But wanting, hoping for such things is ripping him into shreds. He doesn’t know how much his heart can take. How much false hope can be thrown at him before he breaks. 

Shame works in with his despair. His own mind has betrayed him again and again. He wonders if this was the plan all along. They didn’t even need to lift a finger, Hanzo was more than perfectly capable destroying his own spirit with his own hands. The simplicity of it all is….

Distantly he hears footfalls. The orderlies most likely. He doesn’t lift his head when whoever it is stops a foot away or when there’s a prick at the meat of his arm. He gladly sinks into the darkness the sedative uncoils within him. 

It’s better than dealing with his minds twisted notion of hope and comfort. 

  
  


Hanzo wakes up and it's much brighter than what he’s used to. Warmer as well. He’s been moved. He’s on a bed, not a cot. The walls are white and there’s machines humming, a slight buzz fills the air. Nothing hurts. 

A chill runs down his spine.

Everything is wrong.

His eyes sweep around the room, falling on a figure stretched out over two chairs covered in a blanket it, a quiet snore coming at an easy rhythm. 

Hanzo takes a breath and closes his eyes. He tries to steel himself. It’s not real. It’s not real. They simply moved him. Not real. Jesse isn’t here. He isn’t real. It’s a false comfort. Don’t believe any—

“Hanzo? Darlin’ did you say somethin’?” Hanzo press his lips into a thin line to stop their movements. 

“Need somethin’? Water? Are you hurtin’?” Hanzo peeks his eye open, glancing at the image of Jesse next to him, now sitting up in the chair. 

He pinches them closed again, pushing out air on a shaky exhale. He shakes his head just a fraction, just enough to ground him. No, he reminds himself again, no this isn’t real. Ignore it. It till pass. He will...leave. He always leaves. 

“Hanzo.” A hand, warm and rough cups the side of his face. He’s tired and his despairing heart wants so badly for this comfort, knowing its a figment of his mind, knowing its a lie, his heart no longer cares. 

He shatters.

Hanzo presses into lie. Gives into the fabricated comfort. Allows himself his weakness because he cannot take anymore. He cannot bear it anymore. And if the price for letting everything go and delving into the figment of peace he mind has created is to become whatever shell they’ve been working to mold him into, so be it. Maybe then it will all end. He won’t have this gnarled sense of hope in him anymore. 

Maybe it's in his surrendering to the fiction, does the hand feel realer than it ever has before. Makes the strength of the embrace desperate and tight. Makes the sound of Jesse’s heart so loud. Hanzo gives himself to it. Presses his face into Jesse’s chest, winds his arms around the fathom’s waist to cling to it with a vice grip.

“Shhh, shhh, Hanzo it’s okay. I got you, baby. I’m here. I’m right here.” The words are a double edged sword, his heart gladly throws itself on to capture a sliver of serenity. 

Hanzo cocoons himself in the warmth and the release of his sorrow until exhaustion takes him.

  
  


He’s not alone when he wakes up. But rather sleeping in the chairs, Jesse is snuggly holding Hanzo close, tucking him under his chin. Hanzo stares at Jesse's throat. This doesn't make sense. He should be alone. He's always, no not always alone but never, never like this. He’s woken before with Jesse beside him. It’s always the worst but never were their limbs tangled. Never did he hear air being drawn in or the grumble of a stomach. 

Memories lingering from the last time he was conscious, he clings to the lie. He wants to enjoy it, soak in the final bits of comfort before he locks himself away behind walls in his mind. He pushes in tighter, trying to bury himself in the imagined body below him. His pressing pushes a grunt out from beneath him. 

“Darlin’ you’re cuttin’ off my airflow and very close to crushin' my gems.” Jesse tries to pull away. Hanzo won’t allow an inch of space.

“Don’t leave. Not yet. Let me have this.” Hanzo murmurs mostly to his traitorous mind. He repeats the mantra over and over, quietly. The sifting in his arms stops for a moment before he’s jostled slightly. His limbs are rearranged gently, an arm is raised, he’s pushed to almost be sitting up, the sound of fabric rustling before he’s settled back into place.

“Alright darlin’ you win. I ain’t going anywhere.” 

  
  


Hanzo wakes up and he’s alone. He doesn’t, he can’t, he won’t feel sorrow for the phantom now gone. He knew this was going to happen. He looks around the room again instead to distract his mind. Without his mind’s lies to conceal reality, he looks more carefully at the room. There’s the chairs, backs against the wall. No sign of anyone having slept in it. Of course there wouldn’t be. No one was ever there to begin with. 

His mouth goes dry. His heart speeds up. The beeping sound speeds up. His eyes dart around so quickly he makes himself dizzy. 

His first instinct is to drive any sense of possible hope or belief in his perceived reality away. It has been the only way he could protect his sanity what little is left. 

Yet the facts presented to him war against what he’s been subjected to by his own crumbling mind.

Because the walls are white, soft with a blue tint to it, the windows let in shadows from birds flying by, it smells like antiseptic and the tinniness he’s come to associate with biotic fields. On the table by the chair are a stack of folded clothes, he spots a glint of shimmering gold in a sea dark navy blue. His hands tightened into fists gathering handfuls of smooth sheets and a coarser material that pull his eyes down. The red wool contrasts against the pure white of the rest of the bedding to the point of being an eyesore. Yet Hanzo's eyes devour the colors, desert crimson and gold. 

He looks down at the serape draped over his middle, pooling in his lap when he sits up fully. There’s an intent on the pillow next to his head, a loose hair of brown left behind. His finger catches on a bullethole in the fabric. There isn’t just smoke and spice, but also…. Hanzo’s chest constricts, his face twists with the pain of possibility. 

Of hope.

Could he truly be… that he's...he's…at Gibraltar, in the watch point medical wing, not in some concrete cell left to rot? He's been in this room before both in the bed injured and sitting in those chairs. 

Is he here? Is this real? Or has he finally succumbed to his mind cleaving in half and everything around him is a final attempt to give him some solace of peace?

He bends over covering his face with his hands. He wants to scream. He wants to curse the fates but a small part of him reminds him he is deserving of this torment. 

A hand touches his shoulder. Frustration and rage coil together, he snaps his hand out displacing the hand on him and from years of muscle memory he strikes out with a fist. The impact shocks him. As does the clatter of a plastic bouncing off the tile floor, the splash of liquid, and the shout from the person he _ struck _.

“Whoa! Hanzo it's me. It’s Jesse.” 

Hanzo stares, petrified. Jesse’s there before him, one hand up there other rubbing at his sternum. Where Hanzo had hit him. Where his knuckles had _ connected _. 

“Do you know who I am?” Jesse has the remnants of a grimace of pain morphing into concern. There’s spots of dampness on his shirt. He looks clean, but his eyes have dark circles, his face a bit thinner, hair longer. He doesn’t look like how Hanzo remembers. He has never seen Jesse look like this. 

“Are you hurtin’, do you need Ange?” Jesse takes a half step closer, his foot splashing in a puddle, the scent of tea fills the air, he keeps his hands up, eyes wary for another strike. Waiting for a reply. For Hanzo to reply. 

“I hit you.” 

“That’s alright. What I get for spookin’ you.” 

“I...I…” Hanzo’s voice quivers, “I...hit you. You...you _ felt _ it. I _ felt _ it. This is real. You’re...you’re real. You’re here. You’re really… _ here _.”

Hanzo rambles, body shuddering, face cracking, as he continues. He watches Jesse’s brows draw together, lips turning down in a frown. Upset at Hanzo’s pain, he takes those final steps to the bed and gathers Hanzo into his arms. Hanzo’s hands clamp down on the arms, digs his fingers in, pulling a hiss of pain from Jesse.

“Yes. I’m real.” Jesse runs a smoothing hand down Hanzo’s back. “You can hit me all ya want, just not so hard. Or in the nuts.”

Hanzo lets out a choked laugh. 

Jesse's truly here.


End file.
